


The Sea and Sky Themselves

by 0sprey



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gladiators, Gladiators, M/M, Qunari, Tevinter Imperium
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-13 18:00:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15370194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0sprey/pseuds/0sprey
Summary: The crowd rippled, murmured. Were they supposed to cheer? It felt unnatural to cheer for the enemy while four of your countrymen lay at his feet, but fasta vass what a good show. Finally, the tension split and a full-bodied roar spread through the crowd. The altus looked sidelong at one another and clapped hesitantly, almost grudgingly.





	1. Blood and Sand

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, here we are, so I'm gonna be real real honest with y'all: I have been known to start really ambitious fanfictions, then get excited and write a lot, then either abandon them or let them sit for years before finally updating. I'm not saying that's what's going to happen necessarily, I'm just apologizing in advance so you can emotionally prepare yourselves if I do drop of the face of the earth. I know myself, I know my strengths okay.
> 
> Just so everyone is aware though: they gon' fuck, and it's gonna be awesome.

In the last few years it had grown very fashionable amongst the altus families to make a good show of disdaining bloodsport. Waxing rhapsodic about the “inherent dignity of life” did wonders for making one feel superior and self-important, and there were few things magisters relished more than talking down to other magisters. The high seats at the coliseum in Qarinus remained packed, of course, as packed as they had always been, but instead of shouting encouragement and clapping appreciatively, anyone who was anyone now attended the gladiatorial games strictly to sample expensive wines under the colorful canopies, socialize, and scoff at one another about how barbaric the whole thing was.

Dorian, as had become his habit, sipped his drink and kept his mouth otherwise shut. He had been vocally opposed to the games since long before the sentiment had come into vogue, but Maker forbid he should remind anyone of  _ that _ . Petulance was for children, and at nineteen it was long since unbecoming on him, or so his mother had told him. He contented himself instead with slightly raising his eyebrows and even more slightly pursing his lips whenever anyone tried to discuss their newfound moral qualms with him. The first game had not yet begun and he was already getting concerned about his forehead developing a permanent crease.

The sudden pounding of drums shook the heavy August air, and fifteen thousand voices – soporati all – lifted in a deafening cheer as the procession entered the arena below. A muscular young man bearing the heraldry of the Tevinter Imperium walked ahead of the drummers, who marched neatly in double file. Then followed the orinatum: men in helmet-like metal masks, each holding a weapon aloft. Each one was meant to symbolically represent a specific gladiator, indicating if they were left- or right-handed and what weapon they preferred. Red paint across the chest showed they had been captured in battle, and colored silk sashes indicated the gladiator’s gender. Criminals, whose matches were fixed as death sentences, had been marked across the neck and shoulders with ash. It was on these ceremonial proxies that bets were placed, which made it an easy system to rig. If a gladiator were wounded or ill going into the match, no one would know until it was too late.

Dorian rested his elbows against the marble baluster, his fingers twisting the stem of a champagne flute as Magister Septanus gave a soggy discourse in his left ear. He heard not a word of it. His eyes followed the orinatum as they circled the arena, roaring and pumping their weapons in the air, rousing the crowd as the caduceator stood on a dais in the center, telling of the gladiators’ prior victories and promising all manner of feats from the newcomers in flowery, pompous language.

As the other Altus carried on chattering, Dorian silently picked a few favorites from the orinatum: an elf girl with a spear and a rugged old ex-soldier with rather fetching facial scars who he’d seen fight before. He recognized the mask. Dorian’s hatred of the games was every bit as genuine as he professed it to be; he resented the culture of excess, hated to see men and women die senselessly for entertainment, but somewhere deep beneath the lacquer of civilization there remained something very carnal that wanted to cry for blood just like the masses below. He was not blind to the hypocrisy of it.

“Oh…ah, yes, without a doubt,” Dorian replied tonelessly, glancing up abruptly when he realized Septanus had hit an expectant pause. The magister made a haughty, affirmative sound and carried on. Dorian sighed softly to himself and finished what was left in his glass.

He mingled dutifully as the games began, glancing down into the arena only as often as anyone else, trying not to get too attached to his valiant young elf girl, who held her own for twenty agonizing minutes against a red lion. At least they didn’t let the thing eat her corpse after it finally tore her throat out.

By mid afternoon eleven matches had been fought and eight people had bled out into the sand, to a chorus of cheers more befitting a circus than a public mass execution. The arena was being re-groomed for the twelfth and final game. Most of the spectators were discussing the previous matches with vigor or getting refreshments as they waited, until the caduceator stepped out into the arena once again and a surprised hush fell over the crowd. He raised his hands and his voice rang out over the amphitheater.

“Esteemed guests!” He cried, grinning broadly, “raise a cheer for your champions!”

The crowd erupted, and Dorian rolled his eyes hard enough to give himself a slight headache.

“And another,” the caduceator continued when the din had died down, “for those who died here today, nobly and with honor!”

A second cheer went up, no less raucous than the first, and Dorian, quite fed up, turned away from the baluster to fetch himself either his fourth or fifth drink - he’d recently lost track.

“But let us hope that you have not yet grown weary of such marvels, such feats of bravery and skill - ” The clarion voice carried on as Dorian tried to pretend that plucking a glass off a tray and brushing grit from the stone off his elbow was occupying his full attention. “ – For what you have yet to witness is truly a testament to the glory of the Imperium.”

It was the usual sort of melodramatic, patriotic nonsense and Dorian would have paid it no mind at all if it had not been immediately followed by a deafening and perfectly synchronous gasp. He turned rather abruptly back to the arena and even in his determined apathy he could not help but raise his eyebrows.

Onto the freshly smoothed sand stepped probably the largest qunari he had ever seen – not that they were exactly a common sight in Qarinus. A few especially pretentious households kept qunari slaves: more for show than practicality, but any captured alive in skirmishes were usually too valuable to the military to be wasted on entertainment. Where had they rounded up this one? Dorian struggled to remember which orinatum had corresponded to this new gladiator, but he hadn’t been paying close enough attention.

Even the altus largely gave up trying to feign disinterest as the massive combatant walked purposefully toward the center of the arena. He seemed strangely unconcerned: looking out over the stands and swaggering more than trudging. One hand rested loosely on the grip of an axe that he carried slung over his shoulder. He was wearing armor, but it was plainly for show; the brass plates on his shoulders were polished and gleaming gold in the sun but this corded thighs and almost his entire torso were bare.

The caduceator was saying something, but Dorian wasn’t listening. The qunari seemed not to be either; he shrugged the axe off his shoulder to let the head of it drop heavily into the sand. His broad-horned head turned slowly as his eyes scanned the crowd. For a chilling instant Dorian got the distinct sensation that the brute was looking right at him. His hand gripped the baluster a little tighter.

With a loud  _ clank _ the portcullis at the opposite end of the arena began to rise, creaking loudly as it went, and for added flair the drums thundered to life again. It was effective. But for the odd shout he audience sat rapt, collective breaths held.

Four men marched into the arena opposite the beast, carrying maces and shields, their heavy armor scraping and clicking and very much real. Their uniform gait suggested that they had fought together before, but Dorian was certain that these were not well-known gladiators. The officiates would never have risked crowd favorites against such an opponent, even with odds stacked in their favor. These men were new combatants: fresh from years of training and itching to prove themselves. To their credit, although they gripped their weapons tightly, none of them faltered as they approached the qunari.

The horned beast himself stood motionless, unnervingly calm as the four men split off and surrounded him. One palm rested on his axe, his fingers hanging in a relaxed curl. He did no more than glance at each of them as they began to close in from all four points.

With a loud roar, one of the gladiators surged forward and aimed a strike at the back of the qunari’s thigh, while another rushed to attack from the front. With agility that was astonishing for such a large body, the qunari twisted and took a wide sidestep, gripping his axe as he moved and swinging it upward. Instead of smashing into flesh, the first gladiator’s mace connected beneath the blade of the axe and was ripped from his hand and sent flying. The axe continued its upward arc as the qunari took another smooth half-step forward and to the right, and then came crashing down under the force of sinew and gravity into the nearest gladiator’s right shoulder. The heavy pauldron blunted some of the impact, but the metal crunched and squeaked and buckled and the man cried out horribly as his legs gave out beneath him. The crowd gasped, a few even jumped to their feet.

The two gladiators who had rushed in to attack – one now unarmed – found themselves facing each other with no opponent between them. The qunari wrenched his ax free, pivoted, and swung at the armed gladiator’s back. This one was quick; he leapt desperately out of reach, landing clumsily on his side but escaping harm. The unarmed gladiator was not quite as nimble. The axe clipped his side, ringing against his breastplate and forcing him to stumble backward to stay on his feet. The qunari turned fully, expertly reversing the momentum of the heavy weapon, and struck the man’s back before he could turn to block. He was thrown face down onto his shield, stunned and struggling to breathe.

Excited murmurs ran through the crowd as the qunari turned to face the two remaining gladiators. The one who had dodged the axe rolled away and quickly regained his feet, shield and mace at the ready. The other glanced to his companion and took an uncertain step backward.

“Don’t bother,” the qunari bellowed, nodding toward the retreating man but speaking loud enough for his voice to carry across the arena, “I could chase you around this pit all day, but I’ll only be in a worse mood when I catch you. Let’s just get it over with.”

The bolder of the two scuttled forward, shield raised. The qunari took a downward swing, but instead of trying to dodge the man threw his mace determinedly at the qunari’s head and curled into a crouch behind the shield. The brute turned to avoid a direct hit to the face and the mace struck his left horn with a skull-rattling crack just as his axe buried itself into the gladiator’s raised shield. Had the second gladiator taken the opening the first had provided him, he may have had a chance at landing a strike to the qunari’s head, but the man’s fear got the best of him. He hesitated a split second too long. With a vicious jerk the qunari freed his axe, dragging the shield and the gladiator attached to it forward into the sand, and brought it around to sweep the man’s legs out from under him. His back hit the ground and it took him a second to get enough air to scream.

The gladiator who’d thrown his mace thrashed in the sand, trying to stand, trying to disentangle his arm from the split and mangled shield. The qunari’s axe came down hard on his calf, plainly shattering it through the shin guard, but although the man was clearly helpless and in agony the beast made no attempt at a killing blow. The armored gladiator gave a high, piteous whimper and gasped a few times before slumping over, apparently in a dead faint.

The qunari turned to the two men uninjured enough to slog heavily back to their feet. One was still unarmed.

“So we done?”

The men looked helplessly to one another. They didn’t stand a chance, but to surrender when they still had both legs beneath them would brand them as cowards forever, and likely ruin any chance they had of career fame.

The qunari spun his axe lightly in his broad hands. “Your call, ‘Vints, I could do this all day.”

The unarmed man broke and ran desperately for the nearest mace, lying several yards away in the sand. The other glanced to him, then to the qunari, taking an uncertain step back, but before he committed to a course of action, the qunari took a wide swing. The man couldn’t evade, he was too close, so he put the haft of his own mace in the path of the axe. The  _ thunk _ and  _ crunch _ of the metal hitting hardwood echoed through the stadium, the crowd inhaled. Somehow the gladiator managed to keep a grip on his weapon, but his arms shook uselessly as the qunari wound up again, and with the second strike the axehead screeched on armor, bearing the man to the ground.

Though the last man had managed to pick up a mace, he’d clearly had enough of this madness. He didn’t attack, it was all he could do to try to twist violently out of the way when the axe swung for his legs. It didn’t look as though he’d been hit especially hard, but he stayed down and the qunari let him be.

The crowd rippled, murmured. Were they supposed to cheer? It felt unnatural to cheer for the enemy while four of your countrymen lay at his feet, but  _ fasta vass _ what a good show. Finally, the tension split and a full-bodied roar spread through the crowd. The altus looked sidelong at one another and clapped hesitantly, almost grudgingly.

Dorian stood silent and unmoving with a full glass still in his hand and his eyes still on the qunari. Astonishing, that such a creature could move with such effortless precision. Even now, he stood at ease, businesslike, as if he had been doing nothing more interesting or strenuous than chopping firewood. The horned head turned toward him, and Dorian felt the same uneasy squirm in his stomach, like the beast knew him, knew he was there.

He stepped back from the edge of the platform, and once he managed to find a bench beneath the canopies with no clear view of the arena he started to come back to himself.

_ Don’t get attached _ , he reminded himself,  _ they’ll never keep something like that around for too long, bad for the war effort. _ A vision of the red lion, its mane wet with elf blood, drifted through his mind, and he took a sip of his drink.


	2. Impulse

Dorian blinked a few times and his eyes began to sting slightly. He had skimmed the last several lines of  _ An Anthropological Study of Fereldan Hedge Magic _ three or four times without actually picking up a word of what it was saying. He rubbed his forehead and set the book down on the cushioned window seat, then un-wedged his feet from where he’d propped them up against the wall. His boot had left another scuff mark on the pale sandstone block, adding to the collection of smudges and scrapes he’d started at around age thirteen when his legs had begun to get too long for the little alcove. He tilted his head back and tried to judge by the distant sound of shuffling feet how long he had before his parents bustled downstairs and declared themselves draped and bejeweled and coiffed enough to be seen at whatever high-society nonsense it was they were all meant to be going to.

He had refused outright to sleep at the Pavus estate during his brief stay back in Qarinus. Things had certainly quieted between himself and his father since the last major blowup (something about the Archon, if Dorian recalled correctly) but six months’ time and three hundred nautical miles had proven an excellent balm for that wound, and there was no sense undoing it all in a hurry. He had desperately missed all the books he’d left behind, though.

He heard a distant rapping, and spent a moment wondering awkwardly if he should investigate before an elven servant hurried down the hall to answer the front door. Dorian stood up and sidled around the desk to peer into the vaulted foyer. He hadn’t realized they were expecting anyone.

The servant opened the door just a crack. He seemed a little put off as well. “Good evening ma’am,” he said sheepishly, “Magister and Lady Pavus are unfortunately indisposed at the moment, I’m afraid we weren’t aware of - ”

“That’s just as well, Magister and Lady Pavus needn’t be bothered.” 

Dorian recognized the voice immediately and a broad grin lit up his face. “Mae!” He called, all but sprinting down the hallway. The servant sidestepped out of the way as he pushed the door open and pulled her into a tight hug.

“Dorian Pavus, as I live and breathe,” she giggled, throwing an arm around him. “I see reports of your disgrace and ruination in Minrathous have been greatly exaggerated.”

“I was going to stop by and see you tomorrow, I just had to deal with a few things first,” he said, releasing her from the embrace and leading her inside, “How did you know I was here?” 

“That man you rented your room from is my father’s tailor. He didn’t mention you by name but you’re far more memorable than you seem to think. I figured since my parents are off in Antiva somewhere you might be willing to escort me to this awful to-do Magister Illeus is putting on.”

Dorian felt a wave of such profound relief that he actually sighed aloud. He’d been dreading the evening even more than he’d dreaded the sea voyage home. “That does explain how overdressed you are. Here I thought you were just delighted to see me.”

“You didn’t mess up my hair, did you?” Mae scolded, though she couldn’t keep from smiling as she gently patted her loose blond curls.

“It looks perfectly lovely. All of you looks perfectly lovely, in fact. That gown must have been expensive.” It was a dark blue number that fit close through the bodice but cascaded to the floor in a liquid-like drape. The embroidered neckline was very flattering to her collarbones. She’d always had a real artists eye for highlighting her best features.

“Oh it was. Father’s really come around the last year or so. He said that if I must wear dresses they should at least be ones befitting his station, and who was I to argue?”

Dorian sighed again, though somewhat more quietly this time.

“Darling, I know you must resent your dear old father for this whole thing,” Mae said, resting a hand on his upper arm, “and I don’t blame you, but selfishly I am a little pleased about it.”

Dorian laughed. “Yes you are putting on a very brave face, but I’m quite used to this sort of posturing by now,” he reassured her, rolling his eyes. “He’s just reminding me that he’s still in charge. I can secure an apprenticeship on my own, get by in Minrathous on my own, and for a few months at a time I can even live a relatively scandal-free lifestyle - if I set my mind to it - but when he whistles and pats a leg I still have to hurry back to Qarinus and make nice with his friends.”

At long last, sharp footsteps rang on the stone staircase. Dorian looked up just in time to see Halward Pavus balk indiscreetly at the sight of Mae, but his mother Aquinea didn’t so much as blink. She was well known for her unshakable veneer of propriety.

“Maevaris, what a pleasant surprise,” she cooed, a well-practiced and perfectly convincing smile shining down on them warmly. “I hope your family is well.”

“Very much so, thank you for asking, off traveling Maker-knows-where,” she replied, her tone just a little too syrupy.

Pithy remarks positively clambered over each other to be the first out of Dorian’s mouth as Mae made stiff small talk with his parents, but he restrained himself. She always had been the better diplomat.

“Haven’t we got somewhere to be?” He interrupted after a few moments of idle chatter.

There was silence for a few beats before Halward looked from Dorian to Mae and wearily replied. “I supposed we have.”

\--

Mae clung demurely to his arm as they took their sweet time up the terraced walk to the magister’s villa. Anton Illeus despised House Pavus slightly more than average, which had surely been a factor in Halward Pavus’s demand that Dorian return home to stand in the public eye for a few weeks. Now that he was studying under a genuinely respectable magister, and since no one could  _ prove _ that there was any truth at all to the brothel-related rumors, Magister Pavus had something to rub in Illeus’s face for a change.

Mae turning up had put an unsightly crack in his plan before the evening had even begun, and he was clearly not taking it well.

Dorian, on the other hand, was feeling rather smug. He would never have deliberately used Mae to get one over on his father - he respected her far too much for that - but they had both learned to almost fetishize public reproach. He imagined she was happy for the excuse to look conspicuously better than most of the other women at the event as well, so all in all the evening was already feeling like a come-from-behind victory.

For barely an instant, just as Mae misstepped a little on her heels and laughed to herself, Dorian felt a sharp little pang of envy. It had been nearly four years since Mae had informed her father - in a forcefully-worded letter that she’d been too shaky at the time to hand to him herself - that she would no longer publicly answer to “he” or to any form of address that implied her to be a magister’s son. Magister Tilani was a soft spoken man, he had tolerated Mae wearing dresses around the house since she was ten years old with only mild consternation, but even he had spent more than a year coming to terms with his child’s vocal and highly public self-determination. 

Dorian had been caught feverishly kissing a male servant in a hallway at a winter ball about four months later. Halward Pavus had confined his son to the house for nearly two months, but had not spoken a word about it, not even in private. There had been further incidents since then, and Halward had only grown colder and more autocratic with each one. Now here Mae was, looking positively magnificent in a dress her father had bought her, and representing House Tilani in Tevinter high society. Meanwhile Dorian, though older by more than a year, was being led along like a puppy that hadn’t yet learned not to piss on people's feet.

He didn’t dwell on it. He was truly happy for her, and she had been through enough without his burdens as well.

Dorian and Mae were announced together at the entrance to the garden, and for a few seconds one might have thought from the murmuring that the Archon himself had just turned up. Halward and Aquinea had entered first, so he missed the undoubtedly priceless looks on their faces, but he did spot Magister Illeus just inside, his slightly-too-intense stare fixed squarely on the two of them.

The magister was a thin, balding man with very pale eyes, wealthy even within his own station, and quite a shrewd businessman, by all accounts. He was also known to be a voracious gossip.

“Halward!” he exclaimed, descending on them like a falcon on a rabbit “what a surprise to see this handsome boy of yours back in Qarinus, I thought he’d taken off for bigger and better things.”

Halward clearly found the familiarity of his tone incredibly grating, specially considering the man was obviously not surprised at all, but he kept his composure.

“Dorian thought it a good time to check in on us back home,” Aquinea chimed in sweetly, “it is hard on a family to be so far apart for all that time, but we trust Dorian is making us proud.”

Illeus turned to Dorian, and Dorian gave him a deliberately unconvincing close-lipped smile.

“How do you find the capital, Dorian? Very stimulating, I imagine.”

“Oh very,” Dorian agreed eagerly, “all sorts of new experiences, a bit of a challenge to take in at first, but one can grow accustomed to anything.”

Halward shot him a warning look over Illeus’s shoulder.

“I’ve heard a great deal about Magister Alexius, myself. The man is undoubtedly talented, but he has a reputation for being very demanding of his students.”

“He’s a determined man, but so am I,” Dorian replied, “I expect that given enough time he may even grow fond of me.”

Illeus chuckled obligingly. “And have you chosen a specialization yet?”

“Necromancy,” he answered without hesitation, and even his mother turned her head to glare at him.

“Necromancy, how...ambitious,” Illeus said. Dorian carried right on smiling disingenuously. “If you’ll pardon me, I’m afraid we’ll have to finish catching up later, Halward, the guests are pouring in faster than I can dispense the pleasantries. Do enjoy yourselves, I had the wine imported just for the occasion.” He was gone as fast as he had appeared, leaving the four of them in an awkward semicircle, all staring directly at one another. Aquinea drew in a breath to speak.

“Come on, Dorian,” Mae declared, tugging on his arm, “it’d be terribly rude of us not to have a drink, seeing as Magister Illeus went to all that  _ trouble _ .”

Dorian gave his father the very same smile he’d graced Magister Illeus with and let Mae lead him determinedly away. 

Mae did an exemplary job of flitting about exchanging polite conversation and introducing him to distant acquaintances. Dorian chimed in where appropriate but mostly just admired her at work. If she kept pace like this for another few years, she was going to be far more influential than her father ever had been. She always laughed at just the right moments, gave just the right sort of compliments, and dodged invasive questions as deftly as anyone he’d ever seen. All the while, Dorian kept spotting his parents lurking nearby, not quite out of sight, plainly afraid to let him speak too long without supervision.

By the time they had sat through an ostentatious dinner the late summer sun had faded to a red wash on the horizon. Dorian was bracing for another round of pretending to care about Magister Lucien’s new seaside property over drinks and dessert, but it proved to be an unexpected blessing that Magister Illeus had more money than he knew what to do with. As the tables were being cleared from the brick patio, another group of elven slaves began bustling about in the open lawn nearby, cordoning off a large, flat area in the center of the garden as well as a wide path out to the gated entrance. 

“What in Andraste’s name are they doing?” Mae wondered aloud as they set unlit torches out along the perimeter of the clearing.

Dramatic music struck up - probably magical, as there were no musicians in sight - and two by two a group of brightly costumed men and women entered the garden carrying long poles and large metal rings and all sorts of other incomprehensible but dramatic-looking props.

“Looks like one of those Nevarran tumbling acts,” Dorian muttered dryly, “all the rage in Orlais, or so I’ve heard.”

Mae rolled her eyes. “Maker’s breath, we’re going to be here all night.”

Dorian was shortly proven right, the troupe launched into a series of leaps and flips and acrobatic feats that drew many a gasp and cheer from the party guests. If there was anything to be said for the spectacle, it did excuse Dorian and Mae from quite a bit of small talk. It also gave Dorian ample opportunity to toss back quite a bit more of that specially-imported wine than he ought to have.

As true darkness fell the Nevarrans wrapped up their act to rousing applause, waving and bowing as they paraded out of the garden. When the last of them had cleared the gate two Laetan mages in Illeus’s employ appeared from somewhere and busied themselves pacing along the perimeter of the clearing where the torches had been placed.

“Slim odds of it being an all-male burlesque act up next, I assume?” Dorian asked slightly too loudly. He swayed and nearly stumbled before he took hold of Mae’s arm to steady himself.

Mae looped her arm under his and craned her neck - along with many of the other guests - to try to get a better look at what was going on. As they went, the two mages called up a transparent wall about ten feet high to separate the crowd and the clearing. It was all rather peculiar.

“I wouldn’t get your hopes up, darling,” Mae replied.

Seemingly of their own accord, the torches along the edge of the clearing erupted with tongues of flame, illuminating the whole garden with warm, dancing light. The music lulled for a tense moment and silence fell obligingly over the crowd. As it built dramatically back to full volume, an elven slave stepped out into the garden, coaxing along a huge spotted cat on a lead. The crowd rippled with murmurs and applause. The collar it wore was attached to a rigid metal pole to keep it at a safe distance from her, and just as well that it was. Though beautiful, the creature was more than double its handler’s weight and clearly agitated. She guided it around the clearing as it growled and whipped its tail, and the guests exclaimed in admiration. When the crowd’s response to the cat finally began to die down it was led away from the garden and a pair of pure white halla paraded after it. Something - perhaps the crowd or the smell of the cat - made them rear and prance and bellow for the onlookers.

“It’d be a lot less work just to put gold bricks on carts and push them around,” Dorian remarked, and Mae snickered quietly.

“A gold brick doesn’t make much noise when you prod it with a stick, and there’s practically no risk at all of one ripping the arm off a slave in front of everyone. Where’s the fun in that?”

“Oh yes, of course. Silly me, what sort of party would this be if there were no risk of gruesome death?”

Dorian wouldn’t have put it past certain magisters to stage something like that, but to Illeus’s credit grievous bodily harm did not seem to be on the agenda. If anything, the magical barrier dampened the excitement a bit as one exotic beast after another was led into the garden. Spectators crowded up against the wall like children peering into a neighbor’s window, utterly confident of their safety. Until that confidence faltered all at once.

Led on chains by four slaves and attended closely by a third nervous-looking mage, a massive male qunari was marched into the garden. He was so tall he had to incline his head slightly to clear the top of the gate. His thick horns had been wrapped in gilded bands, and he was wearing nothing but a red loincloth. The torchlight danced wildly over his jagged features, but there was no mistaking him.

Dorian squeezed Mae’s arm hard.

“ _ Fasta vass _ , that’s something,” Mae muttered.

Dorian could see the qunari much more clearly than he had in the amphitheater. His shale-colored skin was pitted and scarred deeply in many places across his torso, and the dense musculature of his back carved out deep shadows in the torchlight. He’d lived a violent life, clearly, but he let his handlers direct him without protest. Strangest of all, there seemed no inkling of fear or anger in his eyes. Just as he had done in the arena, he carried himself with an unsettling ease. Lit by fire in the heat-warped night air he seemed almost unreal, as though he were some ancient, primal colossus and not a creature of flesh and bone like the poor fragile idiots who stood gawping at him. Dorian had never seen a dragon, but he imagined this might be what it felt like.

Dorian stared in awe for a moment, then slowly his face twisted into a distasteful grimace. “I don’t know where they get off treating it like a fucking animal,” He snarled, without stopping to consider whether it was really him or the wine talking. “I know we’re at war, but this is just uncivilized, putting a naked qunari in some rich prick’s menagerie for people to stare at.”

Mae’s eyes darted around nervously. He sure wasn’t making much of an effort to keep his voice down. “I agree with you, Dorian, but you’re going to want to pick your audience for that sort of thing a little more carefully,” she hissed.

Dorian made an unflattering scoffing noise but as soon as he looked directly at the gladiator again he forgot what he had intended to say. The qunari looked right back at him, and this time it was no coincidence. His thin lips twitched just a bit, as though he was repressing a smirk, and then he  _ winked _ .

Dorian’s throat went strangely tight, and he immediately felt much less drunk than he had an instant ago.

After those assembled had worn out all their oohing and aahing, the gladiator was turned back toward the gate by his handlers and led away again, but Dorian carried on staring into the dimness after him. Had the thing overheard him? Had it been amused? Could Qunari be amused or did the Qun destroy their emotions? Had this been a chintzy part of the act that he was massively overthinking? He felt an overwhelming dizziness and his stomach clenched.

“Dorian?” Mae put a comforting hand on his back, “are you alright?”

He sucked in a deep, slow breath and let it out through his teeth, then another. “I’m fine,” he said finally, straightening up. “I need a little air, could you cover for me?”

“Your parents have been circling like sharks but I’ll do my best, don’t be gone too long.”

He nodded appreciatively and began weaving as carefully as he could through the clusters of people. As soon as he felt there were enough topiaries between himself and any disapproving eyes, he stepped clumsily over some shrubs and wiggled up and over the stone wall that separated the garden from the rest of the property. As his feet hit the grassy lawn on the other side his stomach rolled, he dropped to his knees and vomited up most of his pretentious dinner. Coughing weakly, he leaned back against the flagstone wall and rested his head in his hands until the spinning began to subside.

Emptying his stomach had helped - it usually did - and it didn’t take too long for him to shake it off and pull himself back together. He clambered to his feet and began straightening out his rumpled clothes to return to the party when he heard soft voices and paused. A small group of Illeus’s slaves were leaving one of the distant outbuildings together, their elven eyes glinting in the dim starlight. He couldn’t understand what they were saying, but even over the nearby sounds of the party he could tell that they were chatting amicably as they drew closer. They certainly would have seen him if they’d been paying attention, elves had no trouble seeing in the dark, but they barely looked up as they walked. Just enough light filtered out from the windows of the house that he recognized them as the team of animal handlers.

He stood motionless as the elves slipped into the house by a back door. Dorian paused, peered hesitantly back over the garden wall, then, before he could talk himself out of it, set off down the paved footpath in the direction the elves had come from.

In the darkness it was difficult to be sure what any of the outbuildings were. He expected there would be a stable, and a carriage house, and probably a kennel, but as he approached the long, squat structure he was reasonably sure that this was none of those things, though the double door was wide enough to fit a carriage through. There was a heavy iron slide latch, but no lock. He almost wished there had been. He sighed.

_ Andraste save me from myself. _

Deciding it was far too late to turn back now, he steeled himself, braced the heel of his hand against the latch, and pushed. It shrieked in protest, and the hinges popped and groaned as the heavy door came open a crack. Dorian tried frantically to think up a clever lie as he winced through the noise, waiting for the hurried footsteps behind him that were surely coming, but a few agonizing seconds passed and he unclenched a little. Mouthing a colorful string of blasphemies to himself, he turned sideways, glanced back up the path once for good measure, and managed to squeeze into the tiny opening without jostling the door further.

It smelled like a stable, and in the deep blackness on all sides he could hear the shuffling and breathing and growling of...something. Not horses, certainly. His own shallow breaths echoed softly, mingling with the sounds of living things all around him. His hand shook slightly as he held it aloft and summoned a little flame, barely brighter than a candle. The gaunt face of a red lion seemed to materialize out of the darkness beside him, and he recoiled when he saw how close he was to the bars of its cage. It drew back its lips and growled at him, then lowered its head and slunk to the back of its pen.

Walking as softly as he could, he followed the center aisle down the row of enclosures. There was a pair of bright parrots that squawked when his light disturbed them, and a small black bear that licked its paws very pensively, seeming indifferent to his presence. Many of the cages were empty, and whenever he passed an unoccupied one he would stop, hold up the light, and chase the shadows out of the back corners, just to be sure. After having passed by so many, Dorian gave the last several at the end of the row a very cursory glance, which only left him more off his guard when something in the darkness moved. Something big. Dorian’s heart practically leapt out of his body.

“Well isn’t this a surprise.”

Dorian instinctively took two steps backward as the gravelly voice drifted from the cage. The qunari approached the bars, and as he moved Dorian might have sworn that he could  _ hear _ the rumble of hard sinew shifting over bone, like the distant rolling of the ocean.

He raised his corded arms casually over his head and leaned up against the bars, gray eyes combing Dorian over slowly from top to bottom in a way that made him feel unsettlingly vulnerable.

“I like the eye makeup, really works for you. Hope you don’t mind me saying so, but I’ve had to look at a lot of doughy, mouth-breathing old weirdos tonight, so I appreciate the change of scenery.”

Dorian stared dumbly, his mouth open a little and his heart thumping in his chest.

The qunari chuckled, the hard shadows making his face look more sinister than it was. “Yeah, I have that effect on people,” he said, clearly amused, “I’d tell you I’m not as scary as I look, but I have killed a lot of shit. Comes with the job.”

“I...” Dorian’s voice cracked and he cleared his throat sheepishly. “I saw you in the coliseum a few days ago.”

The qunari raised an eyebrow expectantly, but Dorian had to live with the realization that he had painfully little to say. He hadn’t really planned to get this far.

“Good show, huh?”

“It was,” Dorian replied, a little too eagerly.

“I hear I’m popular. And it seems like your rich buddy has a bit of an impulse purchasing problem, so anyway here we both are, bored out of our minds.”

“Magister Illeus is no friend of mine, I assure you,” Dorian snapped.

“Oh yeah? Well you’re at his party drinking his booze, so I’m sure you can see where confusion might arise.”

Dorian opened his mouth to protest only to immediately shut it again, but the qunari seemed more entertained by his discomfort than genuinely angry.

He looked Dorian square in the eye and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial rumble, “Is there maybe some other reason you came down here ‘Vint? Cause you’re not so great with the small talk.” The qunari asked, “Looking for a different sort of entertainment, maybe? Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Dorian’s face flushed hot and he tripped over his tongue a little in his haste to deny it. The qunari laughed, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest.

“I’m not...I just,” Dorian growled, flustered and wishing he was properly sober, “I don’t know. I...I think I’m trying to make myself feel better.”

The qunari trailed off into a soft chuckle. “What about?”

“About which side of the cage I’m standing on.”

The qunari’s lingering smirk deepened. “Is it working?”

“No. I don’t think so. I think I feel worse.”

“Well,” the qunari shrugged, “maybe that’s the only way a good man can feel, in your position.”

Dorian paused. “I’m sorry, I should go, someone will notice I’m gone.” He took a few steps back.

“Bet on me next time,” the qunari said jovially, “they bill me as ‘The Iron Bull’ on the posters. Trust me, I’m a sure thing.”

“I sail back to Minrathous in two weeks,” Dorian replied, and he was surprised to hear a little disappointment in his voice. “I expect I won’t see you again.”

“Well supposing you do,” the qunari said, “this is just sound advice between you and me: drop a few coins.”

Dorian smiled a little in spite of himself  and gave a firm nod as he turned to leave.

“Supposing I see  _ you _ again,” The Iron Bull called after him, “what’s your name?”

Dorian wasn’t sure why he bothered to answer, but he turned and called back, “Dorian, of House Pavus.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I re-wrote this several times and ended up with some real editing fatigue, so if you see any mistakes feel free to point them out, I won't be offended.
> 
> I've taken the approach I've seen a few other people take for capitalizing "qunari": I capitalize it when referring to the social system or a known adherent to the Qun, when referring to a member of the species I leave it lower-case.


End file.
